How Was Your Day?
by latbfan
Summary: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." No one else can truly understand the work that they do and the secrets they are forced to keep. Series of in-canon fill-in-the-blank and imagined one-shots between Oliver and Felicity. T for now.
1. Booze, Sweat and Tears

_A/N: This is all anthfan's fault because she's an enabler. Just a little thought I had as I've spent the past few days binging now that Arrow is on Netflix. I hope you enjoy._

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**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

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Booze, Sweat and Tears

I can hear him as soon as I stumble down the stairs into the lair. Convenient, really, that it's in the basement of a nice bar run by a girl who sort of maybe likes me. At the very least, they have top-shelf booze I don't have to pay for, and then I don't have to worry about how I'll get home. Not that I drink that much. But there are days. Like today. When it's too much. When I don't know why I'm doing what I'm doing. When I'd go crazy if I didn't stop thinking for two seconds. Just two seconds of peace that can sometimes be found at the bottom of a glass if I'm very very lucky.

He hears me, of course. I'm not being especially stealthy as I drop my shoes and lay down on the floor with a sigh, and he's always aware of everyone and everything. But he's used to me loitering when he works out, so he doesn't stop, which is fine-and-dandy because there's nothing like watching Oliver when he's sweaty and shirtless and flexing.

Sure, I know those muscles would probably break my teeth if I bit into them like I sometimes can't stop myself from fantasizing about. I mean. Gosh. Wow. Those arms. Those abs. I can only imagine those butt cheeks. But hey, I'm only human, and it's been a really long time since I've been with anyone, let alone someone not even close to Oliver's level of hotness, and I'm around quite possibly the world's most attractive man, like ever, all the time, and he works out a lot so he's often sweaty and shirtless and flexing and it's just... well... Oh my.

I should close my eyes and take some deep breaths and stop oogling and go home. And then I should compile a list. That's exactly what I should do because it would be so helpful: a database of hotness to reference and remind myself there are others. He is not the only sexy guy in the world. There are lots of men with asses I wouldn't mind breaking my teeth biting. Sure. Uh-huh.

Except he's more than just hot. And he is the only Oliver.

He makes that noise, that grunting sound that should be gross but somehow just makes me think of him, naked, in a big bed, on really nice sheets. I can't help but flex my toes while I watch him. His legs are straight out in front of him as he manages pull-up after pull-up, his sweat dripping onto the floor below him. For a second, I remember those muscles that feel so good through designer dress shirts and have kept me safe and swept me away from death are like the scars and the tattoos. Oliver's muscles are the physical evidence that he was gone for too long, that too much happened to him that he can't, or won't, talk about. Maybe not ever. But they are damn fine to look at anyway. Especially from the floor when I've had one, or maybe two, too many.

He drops to the ground and, without a word, moves to the salmon ladder.

Jesus loves me, this I know. I shift and rest my cheek against the cool tile for a better view. The clink of the metal bar accompanies his sexy work-out soundtrack, and my night is complete. Yeah, it's not so bad. This thing we do, it's good. We're doing good work. We're helping people. We're keeping Starling City safe. Or we try, anyway. Most days, I think maybe we succeed. And when we don't. Well, there's Oliver. And he needs me.

He drops once more to the floor and kneels in front of me.

"Felicity?"

"I bet you have really nice sheets. Rich people always have the best linens."

"You're drunk," he says. It's not a question.

"You're sweaty."

"Yeah." He wipes at his face with a towel and takes a long drink of water. "I just." He closes his eyes.

"I wasn't ready to face the world either," I whisper.

"So you got drunk?"

"Just a little bit. You won't work out with me, so my options are limited."

"It's not personal."

"So you say."

"It's a bad idea."

"So are lots of things we do all the time," I remind him.

"Maybe when you're hydrated," he says with a small smile.

He settles more comfortably on the floor next to me. Like his work-out sounds, his work-out sweat should be gross too. Only it isn't. It smells comforting and safe. I curl onto my side and watch as the drops weave their way across his muscles inches from my nose.

"I think you need this more than I do." He hands me his water bottle and helps me sit up. He keeps his hand on my elbow while I swallow. I taste the salt from his sweat for just a second.

I don't realize I'm crying until he reaches under my glasses with his thumb to wipe away the tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. For asking this of you."

"I'm fine."

"You don't have to be."

I nod. "Yes. I do. I am. Because this is what we do. And you need me."

"I do," he agrees. "But sometimes we lose, Felicity."

"I know."

"And sometimes when we win, we lose too. Like today."

I nod again, not trusting my voice. His thumb brushes against my other cheek.

He pulls me into his chest, and I'm pressed against all that smooth, sweaty skin that's still hot from his work-out. I listen to the soothing song of his heart thundering beneath my ear as his lips ghost against my forehead.

"Tell me about your day?" he quietly asks.


	2. Fight Buddies

_A/N: Thanks, y'all, for the very generous and affectionate welcome to the Arrow fandom! You're amazing. As is anthfan. And The Abs, of course. They are incredibly amazing. I hope you enjoy._

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**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

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Fight Buddies

She's doing it again. Watching me. I'm inverted, doing crunches, concentrating on breath and form and the satisfying burn in my muscles. But I see her out of the corner of my eye. She's always watched, but it's different since she and Digg brought me back.

Sometimes I miss her blushes and stammers and surreptitious glances while she pretended to work on the computer. I miss her rambling explanations that always managed to make whatever awkward thing she'd said sound even worse. She's still Felicity, but she's changed. Of course, how could she not after all we've been through. All we've lost. All the lies we have to tell and secrets we have to keep.

Now, she doesn't hide the fact that she's looking. She sits at her computers and leans back in the chair. She kicks up her feet and rests her chin in her hand and watches me. Not that I mind. I like knowing she's here. After being alone on the island again, her silent vigil is a comfort I don't deserve. Her eyes on my body keep me out of my head. Too often in the past, without her watching, workouts opened the floodgates to memories.

"Rain check, Felicity," Digg says as he walks out of the newly remodeled bathroom. He's changed out of his workout gear and showered, straightening his tie while he moves towards the stairs. "Carly called. Emergency."

I immediately flip down to the floor. "Emergency?"

Digg smiles and shakes his head. "A plumbing emergency."

"Aren't you over-dressed?" I ask.

"I told her I'd take her and A.J. to church afterward."

"Digg," Felicity protests. "I'm all warmed up. I put in contacts." She turns to me. "He broke two pairs of glasses while you were gone. Two." She raises two taped fingers in my direction. "Digg," she says again as she looks at her hand. "I'm already taped."

"I'll be back in a few hours. Oliver, you don't have anything until you and Thea audition that band this afternoon."

"You don't need to be here for that," I say. "Enjoy your Sunday."

"I'll be here."

"What are the chances they're assassins?" I watch as he and Felicity exchange a look.

"I couldn't find anything suspicious when I checked them out," she says with a shrug. "But that doesn't mean anything. Look at your track record."

"Fine," I snap. "Be here then."

"Oliver can spar with you, Felicity. Give 'em hell." Digg winks at her before taking the steps two at a time. The door closes with a metallic finality behind him, and Felicity turns to face me.

"I'm ready when you are."

"This isn't a good idea," I tell her.

She's wearing yoga pants and a tank top, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and I watch her throat while she swallows the last of the water from her bottle. I've seen her with the punching bag, dancing lithely in bare feet, her fists surprisingly fast and accurate. She and Digg kept busy with more than remodeling while I was away.

"Because it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye?" she asks. "Wait. Are we allowed to joke about that when people have actually lost eyes?Because he was a bad guy, so I don't think we should stop using a perfectly acceptable expression..."

"Felicity," I interrupt.

"Never been beaten by a girl?" she teases. "Afraid I'll hurt you?"

"No."

I clench my fists and feel the adrenaline, the surge of power I always experience after a good workout that makes it too easy to lose control. I remind myself of all the training sessions with Shado that ended with a very different kind of workout, one of us against a tree or on the ground, tearing off clothes and hungry and desperate for each other.

This is dangerous. I'm dangerous. I could forget myself. I could forget where I am, who I'm with.

I could really hurt her.

"It's just math, Oliver," Felicity quietly says, all teasing gone from her voice. "It's angles and trajectories and..."

"No," I say again.

"Oliver." She presses a hand to my wrist, her skin hot against mine. Her eyes demand that I not look away from her. Without glasses to hide behind, they're too big and intense and they know too much.

Despite my new vow, I would kill anyone to keep whatever innocence those eyes might have left.

"Felicity," I whisper, shutting my eyes so I don't have to look at her anymore. "I can't."

"Sure you can. Hey." She flicks my chest to get my attention. I open my eyes in shock at the little sting. "This is me. This is you and me, so you can. Just try. If it doesn't work out, we'll stop. Okay."

I swallow and take a deep breath.

"Please. I took out my earrings and everything. I'm ready."

She turns her head so I can see her bare ears. Before I can stop myself, I trace a single finger around the delicate curve that usually has silver spikes through it. She closes her eyes and shivers.

"Okay," I agree.

"You are so going down, mister."

The light tone is back in her voice, as if this is all just a game. She practically skips to the mats, her ponytail bouncing as she shifts her weight between her legs while I tape my hands.

"Tell me what you and Digg have been working on." I stand in front of her, and she gives me her best blond-look, all wide-eyed and flaky.

"Math. And he may have mentioned something about balance?"

"Felicity," I begin. But before I can say anything else, she lunges at me.

Her movement is swift and well-executed. It catches me off guard, and she lands a jab to my chin before I can react. She dances back and smiles at me while I shake my head and flex my jaw. That's probably going to bruise.

"I told you you're going down," she says. "When will you stop doubting me?"

Instead of answering, we spar. I try to start off slowly, but she won't let me, punching and kicking if I hold back or don't attack her aggressively enough. Every time I offer her a hand up from the mat, she accepts with a smile and springs to her feet, ready to go again.

Digg's trained her well. No matter how fast or strong, head to head against a man, she'll lose every time. So she fights smartly. She's doesn't let me corner her. I can't lure her into over-extending herself. She only attacks when she has a clear shot, landing her punches quickly and accurately. She uses my momentum against me, deflecting my advances. There have been plenty of opportunities, if I'd been an assailant intent on harming her, she easily could've gotten away.

We're circling each other again when she suddenly grins and sticks out her tongue at me. I use her momentary distraction to take her legs out beneath her and pin her to the mat. But as I shift my hips away from her, she wiggles and gains the upper hand. She escapes my grip and scrambles to her feet. She's obviously tired, though, and before she can attack again, I have her trapped against the salmon ladder bar, her wrists locked in one hand, my legs wrapped around hers to prevent her from kicking her way free.

I press her against my chest and feel her gasping for breath and the pounding of her heart as I pin her against me with my free arm. I nose her hair out my way and whisper into her ear, "I never doubt you, Felicity."


	3. No Problem

_A/N: This takes place during 2.1, City of Heroes._

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**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

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No Problem

Apparently, not everyone who's been swung to safety pressed against Oliver's side has trouble sleeping. At least no one who's posted to the unofficial Vigilante blog, where people report sightings and share adventures. I keep my eye on it, just to make sure no one's getting too close. And it's not exactly like I can call up a friend and ask.

After jumping from the plane to the island and the landmine rescue and the return trip halfway around the world, I thought my insomnia was just nerves and jet-lag and worrying about the imminent hostile corporate take-over. But today's fleeing-machine-gun-fire-through-the-window incident makes me think it's something else because I should be exhausted. Except I can't sleep. And when I close my eyes, I don't see my life flashing before me like I assume normal people do.

Maybe I've had too many near-death experiences for that sort of thing to bother me anymore. Not that I'm exactly the epitome of normal, but I try not to be a complete freak, which is why it'd be nice to ask someone if after being rescued, when it's dark and quiet and they're safe, they close their eyes and don't envision their grisly demise. Bloody pieces dripping from exotic trees on deserted islands or the internal damage that would result from a fall from almost-the-top of a skyscraper seems perfectly rational. Only I'm not thinking about that. I'm not thinking of the incredible view either, although I do remember it. How often will I get to see Starling City glittering below me from a free-fall before the chain caught and Oliver swung us through the glass into the office below? Well, hopefully never, not ever ever again. But I'll never forget it.

No, I see him when I close my eyes. Shirtless and sweaty and weeks overdue for a shower and a shave but somehow just as beautiful, admittedly in a different way, as suited up in a fitted Tom Ford that cost more than I make in a month. I see those arms that not only miraculously keep himself from plummeting to his death, but me too, only then they're so gentle when they brushed back my hair and pushed my glasses up my nose and ghosted over my arms, checking for injuries, after he'd pulled me to my feet.

I sigh and roll over into the cool sheets on the other side of the bed. I need to just go to sleep. I have to be at work in a few hours, and there's enough going on without sleep deprivation added to the mix. Only when I close my eyes, all I can see is Oliver. Maybe that's my problem. Everyone else who's been miraculously saved owes their lives to the mysterious hooded vigilante. Not me. Both times this week, I was rescued by Oliver.

I give up. Reaching for my glasses and tablet that rest on the bedside table, I rearrange my pillows and settle in. The glare from the screen makes me squint until my eyes adjust to the brightness in the dark of my bedroom.

I check on Digg first. They have highly sensitive trackers in their phones now, both of them, so I can pinpoint exactly where they are at any given time. Not just the general address or the building they're in, but the floor, the room, and then hack into security feeds if I need to. I wasn't a Boy Scout, obviously, but I would've been great, except for the part about not being a boy, because I am prepared.

Digg's phone is in the bedroom of his apartment. Sixth floor. I make myself watch the red dot on my screen for three minutes before I acknowledge that it's not moving. It's most likely sitting on the table next to his bed, and he's asleep. Or, if he is awake, he's not moving his phone. Or someone kidnapped him and left the phone, which is entirely possible, and why didn't I think about that before? Oh my gosh! Someone could have taken him from his bed! These things don't just happen on tv. They happen to us. I should implant microchips in both of them. Walter and Thea and gorgeous-Laurel and Detective Lance and Carly too. Microchips for everyone!

I take a deep breath and then another. This is why I need to get some sleep, so I don't start freaking out. No one needs that, especially not me. Digg's fine, I tell myself. We're all fine. There's absolutely no reason to panic. Except Oliver's phone is moving. I swallow a squeak and stare at my tablet, my heart hammering in my throat, until I realize Oliver's pacing. I watch the dot that is his phone move in a steady circuit around his room at the mansion. He must have it in his pocket.

Why isn't he asleep? Does he wear pajama pants to bed? Maybe they have a pocket. Maybe he's still dressed and doesn't sleep in anything at all.

I have to clear my throat and scissor my legs at the thought of naked Oliver, trying and failing to find more cool sheets.

Focus, Felicity. He might lose his family's company, and he had to dodge four angry gunmen who broke into the office, and leaping out of the window seemed like the best option at the time, which doesn't make for a good day. No wonder he can't sleep either.

My fingers hesitate after I pull up his contact, but I quickly text before I change my mind.

_Are you awake? _I ask even though I already know the answer.

I stare at the screen and watch as the dot that is Oliver's phone stops moving, and I imagine him standing there, his eyebrows furrowed as he reads the text. Almost immediately, my tablet vibrates with his response.

_What's wrong?_

I nestle into my bed and type back. _No problems._

_Then why are you up at 3 am?_

_I'm considering commissioning a study re: insomnia following Tarzan-esque rescues._

His dot moves a little to the left and then stops again, and I wonder if maybe, like me, he's settled into his bed. I've never actually seen Oliver's room or Oliver's bed, but something tells me, like everything else he owns, it's nice. I'm sure it's nicer than nice. It's probably what nice dreams of being when it grows up.

_Your sample will be small. I have it on good authority Tarzan doesn't do that for just anyone._

_Well sure. _I reply. _Those windows have to be expensive._

_As I was recently reminded, the building's only half mine. _He texts back. _That was Isabel Rochev's window._

I can't help but laugh and shake my head. If I didn't loathe her so much, I might feel sorry for Isabel Rochev. She doesn't know who she's picking a fight with. Like so many other people, she looks at Oliver and only sees a spoiled rich kid who dropped out of college and didn't do all that well when he was enrolled. She doesn't see him, although in her defense, Oliver's very good at hiding who he really is.

And I can't feel sorry for Isabel Rochev because in addition to trying to get us all fired, she's too polished and too beautiful. Why do all the women in Oliver's life, even the mean ones, have to be so incredibly good looking? It's just not fair.

My fingers hover over the keypad to respond when Oliver texts again.

_Why aren't you sleeping?_

I sigh and consider my answer. I can't exactly tell him I'm recreationally cyber-stalking him in the middle of the night, which is why texting is so much better than talking, even if I would like to close my eyes and listen to the sound of his voice while I lay in my bed. At least this way, I have control over what I say.

_Are you hurt? _He asks before I can respond.

Without the lights on, I can't see all the little cuts and bruises, which is remarkably all the evidence I have of jumping out of a skyscraper window and jumping into another. I can feel them, countless little stings all over my body, a throb in my left wrist from when we crashed to the floor, but it's nothing like what Oliver must be feeling. He's the one who bore the brunt of the impact. But he never complains about injuries, probably because no matter how bad it gets, it's not much compared to whatever it was that left all his scars. Well, except that time he flat-lined after his mom shot him, but fortunately, I don't think he remembers that.

_No. _I text.

_Adrenaline? Bad dreams?_

_Is that why you're awake? _I ask instead of telling him he's wrong. This isn't adrenaline. I know what that feels like, and this isn't it. This is something else entirely. And despite another close-call, I'm not afraid. Boogeymen don't haunt my dreams. But after all he's been through, as strong and brave as he is, maybe they haunt his? The idea of Oliver, vulnerable in his sleep, makes me want to ask Digg to teach me how to shoot a gun.

There's a long pause. It's so long I begin to think he's not going to answer.

_Long story _he finally texts.

Of course it's a long story. We just dragged him back from the island where he spent five years being tortured because that's where he went after Tommy died. Because he felt safer there, alone with landmines and arrows and creepy masks, than he did here. His mother's in prison awaiting trial for killing hundreds of people. Thea was just kidnapped. He needs to save Queen Consolidated. He needs to decide if he's going to be the Vigilante again or if he's serious about hanging up the hood for good.

He has to know he can't, that Starling City needs him. Part of me wants to shake him until he comes to his senses. But I also want to remind him that he doesn't have to keep punishing himself for things that aren't his fault. He's killed people, yes. And I agree that it's time to not do that so much anymore. And he couldn't stop the Undertaking. And Tommy died. But Oliver didn't kill him, just like he didn't kill Sarah. They made their own choices, and they died because sometimes that happens. Oliver just happened to be there.

I want to tell him that. I want to run my fingers along his jaw and cup his chin in my hand so he can't look away and stare into those freakishly blue eyes and tell him he can leave that island. He doesn't have to suffer alone in purgatory anymore. He has us, me and Digg, and we're going to help. And right now, for what it's worth, he has me awake in the middle of the night too.

_Tell me. _I text back.

_You should try and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow._

The Isabel Rochev meeting. Right. When she announces that she's bought controlling interest in Queen Consolidated and we all get fired. That'll be fun.

_I want to hear this long story._ I text. _It's no problem._


	4. Coffee Break

_A/N: Expanded Oliver POV from 2.2, Identity._

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**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

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Coffee Break

"You need a ride?" Diggle asks.

I ruefully smile and shake my head. "Turns out, being CEO, I actually have some work to do. I'll find my own way."

He nods. "You always do."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the news story shifting from the Triad arrests to my absence at the benefit tonight. They show my picture, the one I really hate with the cocky smirk and raised eyebrow. Given that the media is slamming me again, I'm even more grateful for Digg's faith in me, in our mission, even if I don't deserve it. Felicity has every right to be angry with all the various versions of me because everywhere I turn, I'm failing.

Earlier tonight, Digg said it's strange that I speak of myself in the third person, but I don't know how else to keep all my lives from spilling over into each other. I try not to think too much about before. I look back at the boy I once was, and I am both ashamed of him and envious. That Oliver was selfish and destructive, but he didn't mean to be. He didn't even realize this own shortcomings. He took everything for granted, love and family and privilege, because he simply didn't know any different.

The Oliver on the island was so scared and angry, but he was grateful too. For every little thing. He learned to savor food and the warmth of a fire and find peace in the exhaustion at the end of a hard day. He learned how to love, truly love, and care about someone more than himself. And that Oliver also learned how to be strong and protect the people he cared about. He washed the blood from his hands and learned how to sleep at night after he killed.

That's what Digg and Felicity can't understand. That's why I went back to that place I was so desperate to leave for five long years. I wanted the simplicity of the Oliver on the island. I wanted to be _that_ Oliver again. To only think about where the next meal would come from, the next drink. To only know the sound of his own breath and the endless cries of the birds and crash of the waves. To not have to worry about anyone else. Because that Oliver doesn't have to think about people or their feelings or all the ways he's failed. He just has to survive the next minute, the next hour. He has to keep going until nightfall, until sunrise.

But they found me and dragged me back, and now I'm here again. I'm Oliver Queen, CEO. I'm Oliver Queen, absentee club owner. I'm Oliver Queen, billionaire playboy and son of disgraced murderer and brother of underage girl who's in love with a boy with a death wish. What no one seems to understand is that I look out my office window at Starling City's skyline, and all I can see are the ways I failed. I failed Tommy and Laurel and my father. I failed the Glades and the people I swore I'd protect. I failed my city.

The only peace I know is when my face is hidden beneath my hood and I have a taut bow string waiting to be released in my hands. That moment is my only clarity. Except now the mission is more complicated because the Vigilante isn't killing, but he's fighting enemies on all fronts. It's not just the Triad and paid assassins trying to kill him. He's hunted by the police and District Attorney, too. He's copied by angry men who only feel rage and want revenge. The Vigilante has failed this city just as Oliver Queen has. Just as Oli has failed Laurel and Thea, who can't ever know the truth. Just as whoever I really am failed to see Digg is heartbroken. And then he fled because we were approaching Hug Territory. We've saved each other more times than I can count. We spar and train and share the parts of our lives that matter most, but no, we don't hug. Only Oli, the fuck-up who's forever letting people down, gets to hug. All the other versions of me are hard and aloof and alone.

I lean back in my chair, the lights of the city glittering like stars close enough to touch. My leg still burns from the bullet hole even though I did a nice job sewing it up, another lesson that Oliver had to learn the hard way on the island. It's clean and infection-free, but it's throbbing like a bitch. The gouges on my arm and side from those damn claws probably should've been stitched too, but I didn't want to ask Digg or Felicity for help. I'm pretty sure the butterflies will hold, so long as the Vigilante doesn't have to fly through any windows for the next couple of days.

Felicity's heels click on the floor, and I stop myself from looking up at her even though I want to. I need to. But I don't want to see the accusations in her eyes, even if they're true. I can't right now. I just... I need her. I see her blue nails first, and it's funny but they almost match the mug she sets on my desk.

I chance a look, and she smiles at me and gives a little shrug.

"One," she says before winking and turning back towards her office.

"Felicity, wait."

She stops walking but doesn't turn around.

"Thank you," I say.

She looks back at me and formally nods. "You're welcome, Mr. Queen."

"Join me, Ms. Smoak?" I ask with a grin. I stand up and hold out my chair for her. She looks between me and the chair for a second, trying to decide if I'm serious, before crossing the room and settling in behind my desk. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

She laughs while I pull up a second chair and sit across from her. I reach for the mug and nearly spit when I taste it.

"This," I point out, "is not coffee."

She shakes her head. "Bedtime Blend herbal tea. No wonder you can't sleep if you drink coffee this late at night." I take another sip, prepared for what I'm drinking this time. While the mug is at my lips, she blurts out, "I'm glad you and Digg worked things out, and I am aware that I brought you a hot beverage, which is not coffee because I wasn't kidding when I said I broke your coffee maker. I really did. And it was nice of you to give me your chair and all, but I'm still mad at you."

"Felicity," I say with a sigh, cradling the warm mug in my hands. "I tripled your salary."

"It's not the money, Oliver." She sighs in exasperation. "Money doesn't fix everything."

"Alderman Blood said the same thing," I quietly point out.

"Well, I think he's a big jerk, but just this once we agree on something. And the fact that you don't understand why I'm upset makes me really mad."

I know she's a genius, an honest-to-goodness genius, who could probably conquer the world if she were so inclined. Just like Diggle's insanely over-qualified to drive my car but I take comfort in the fact that no one questions his presence where ever I go, I know her enormous brain isn't being fully utilized in the IT Department, let alone working as my assistant. But I don't get how she's bristling with offense and doesn't understand why I need to have her close to me.

"Those gunmen proved how easy it is to get past security," I tell her, looking out at the city instead of at her. "I can't have you on another floor, far away from me and Digg, if something happens."

"Did it ever occur to you that no one ever storms the IT Department with machine guns?"

"I need to know you're safe, and I don't know how else to accomplish that unless you're with me. And this Oliver, CEO Oliver, is surrounded by sycophants and hacks and thieves. Enemies scrutinize his every move, waiting to pounce on mistakes. He can't give them an easy target, and having a woman, even a genius woman from the IT Department, with him all the time is a target."

"Digg's right, you know. It's creepy how you talk about yourself this way, like you're not you."

"Felicity," I begin.

"No, it's your turn to listen." My head snaps over at the tone in her voice. Despite the hostility, she's leaned back in my chair as if she belongs behind my desk, her legs tucked underneath her. "Anyone who looks at Digg's arm will immediately understand why he's your driver and body-man. It makes sense to have him around all the time because your mom." She falters.

"Was involved in the development of a device that leveled part of the city and killed hundreds of innocent people, including my best friend," I finish for her.

"Well. Yes. That." She clears her throat. "So it makes sense for you to have Diggle's enormous biceps nearby. But do you know what people will assume when they see me up here in your office and in your car and in all your meetings and following you around with cups of coffee?"

"That you take good care of me?" I suggest because it's true, but Felicity only glares.

"Oh, they'll think I take good care of _something_." She huffs. "All anyone has to do is Google me and see where I graduated from. It doesn't take much to put two and two together, and they'll assume I'm providing you with." She blushes and clears her throat. "Your cover story is that you're a billionaire CEO, which isn't exactly a hardship. My new cover story is that I'm your whore."

"Felicity!"

"Your over-qualified whore who graduated the top of her class from MIT, I might add. Which isn't to say I don't have skills in other extracurricular departments because I do. Skills you can't even imagine, mister. Skills that would knock your socks off if I ever actually." She closes her eyes. "I'm going to stop talking about my considerable bedroom skills. But I am not a floozy."

"Of course you aren't," I quickly agree. "Felicity, I didn't think..."

"Obviously," she snaps. "Because you're you! You sleep around and people think you're a stud. Have you ever thought about the women you've used and thrown aside?" I don't answer. "That's the problem. You don't think about other people. Me and Digg are trying to help you, and you make it really hard most of the time."

"Felicity, I promise I didn't promote you to be insulting. I did it because I need someone I can trust."

She swallows. "You can't expect to say one nice thing and have me just forgive you every time you're a selfish jerk."

"But is it a start?" I quietly ask. Before she can respond, my cell phone vibrates against my desk.

"Laurel," Felicity says even though we're both looking at her name on my screen.

We sit in uncomfortable silence until my phone shows a voicemail alert.

"She wants to know where you were tonight," Felicity finally says.

"She's mad at Oli for sleeping with her," I whisper. "Because Tommy died thinking Laurel didn't love him. She's mad at Oliver Queen because he made a promise tonight he didn't keep, and she can't know why. And she's mad at the Vigilante too. She used to trust him. Admire him. But now she hates him."

"You slept with her?" Felicity squeaks.

I shrug, reaching for my phone. "She said it was a mistake."

"I get it," Felicity says, leaning over the desk and snatching up the phone before I can get it. "You needed something to hold onto those five years you were alone, and you chose her. She was your anchor while you were away. And, of course, it doesn't hurt that she's unbelievably beautiful and smart and brave and talented and she can beat people up and you feel guilty about Sarah and Tommy and."

"Get to your point, Felicity," I growl at her.

"Okay. Here it is, my point: the mistake is thinking you can change her mind about you," Felicity gently says.

"Maybe I can't change her mind about me. But the Vigilante..."

"Needs to stay away from her," she interrupts. "She's a distraction, Oliver. An obsession. She thinks the Vigilante is a criminal, and she's going to get you hurt or caught or killed."

"Give me my phone."

"No," she says, standing up. "As your executive assistant, I need to keep your phone tonight for upgrades." She starts to walk towards her office, but I'm out of my chair in a flash, pressing her against the wall of windows, trapping her between my arms.

"My phone," I say again, my mouth nearly touching hers.

She swallows and narrows her eyes. "Fine. Take it." She holds it up and I grab it before she changes her mind, slipping it into my pocket. "But you said you trust me. Did you mean that, or were you just saying it because you need me on your side? Because if you really do trust me, you'll believe me when I tell you you're making a mistake if you contact her tonight."

"I need her to realize that some part of me hasn't let her down," I say.

"No," Felicity says. "You need to move so I don't have to watch you do something incredibly stupid."

I take a step back, but I can't look as her heels once again click across my floor, this time moving away from me. Coffee break is over. It's time to suit up.


	5. Bait

_A/N: Expanded Felicity POV from 2.3, Broken Dolls, which probably everyone wrote about, but here's my version of what happened during the commercial break. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

Bait

I didn't lie when I told Oliver I was scared. We timed our fishing-for-serial-killer expedition so it was getting dark, since that's when he's grabbed all his other victims, and I breezed into the last shop just as the woman was about to lock the door. Each time I walked out holding the tell-tale bag that made me a target, I waited to be followed, to draw out our killer, and every time he didn't show, I grew more nervous, like we were playing a never-ending game of Russian Roulette where we kept pulling the trigger. That was, without a doubt, the creepiest, most awful mission ever. I don't know why I thought shopping in some boutiques I can't afford wouldn't be so bad. Next time I decide to be heroic, I'll jump out of a plane, thank you very much.

Mostly though, I wasn't afraid for me. I mean, okay sure, a little bit was for me. I'm only human and I was dangling myself and my porcelain skin like bait in front of a murderous psychopath. But when I walked around the various corners to my car, which I intentionally parked away from the shops to give our guy plenty of opportunity to expose himself when he tried to grab me, I was thinking about all those other girls and their delicate complexions. Fair skin bruises easily and sunburns and turns embarrassingly red when you say something that's much better left as a random thought inside your head. I know this because I could've been one of his victims, if I could afford to smear crushed mother of pearl into my face. Except I only looked alone when I walked out of those shops. Those other girls didn't have Digg watching from his car across the street and Detective Lance right behind them and Oliver whispering encouragements in their ears from the rooftops. The girls who died actually were alone when the end came.

And then there was a hand over my mouth and I was being dragged into the abandoned building, and even though I knew Oliver and Digg and Detective Lance were with me, that they would die before they let this man hurt me, I was terrified. I breathed in the sickening chemical smell on his hand knowing that chemical in their mouths was the last thing those girls felt before they died.

Oliver could have gotten him, but he stops his pursuit for me. My vision's blurry and I blink at several hooded Olivers crouched on the ground beside me while I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs. But I want him to go and get this guy, for Detective Lance and all the girls he couldn't save and all the ones he could if this guy's behind bars again. But Oliver doesn't leave me until Digg's here to carry me back to the car.

I focus on not throwing up as Diggle runs from the warehouse with me in his arms like a child, jostling my pounding head against his shoulder.

"Digg, we can't leave him," I say.

"Boss' orders. I'm getting you out." He tucks his jacket under my head in the backseat before driving off with tires squealing, leaving Oliver to fend for himself.

"He's alone," I say, hating the edge of hysteria in my voice. He's alone, like those girls were alone with that evil man. "We can't leave him alone."

"Felicity," Diggle soothes in his most calming voice. "He and I decided this before we left. He'd kill me if I stuck around. We both know Oliver can take care of himself."

"He's okay?" I ask in a whisper.

"He's okay."

Only by the time we get back to the lair, I'm the one who's not okay. My head is both throbbing and on fire. I'm sick to my stomach, only I'm almost positive it's not because I have a concussion. It's nerves and being worried about Oliver, not to mention I'm completely creeped out by how I would've died tonight if I hadn't been protected by a posse of trained killers.

Digg opens the car door, and my mouth is flooding with too much spit and the bitter taste of adrenaline, and I only just have time to lean out before I throw up onto the alley, some of it splattering onto his shoes.

"Once again, you are very considerate," Digg gently teases as he holds back my hair while I gag and heave what's left in my stomach onto the ground. "Thanks for waiting until I stopped the car."

"Your shoes," I moan, horrified.

"Will be just fine," he assures me. "Come on. Let's get you inside and check out that bump on your head."

"I got her," Oliver's voice says, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding when he kneels down in front of me.

"How did you get here so fast?" I ask because somehow that seems very important.

"Rooftops don't have red lights."

"Detective Lance?"

"Called for back-up. I'm sure he's fine."

"I threw up," I say. "Don't look at it."

"Shh," he soothes, easing me out of the car and into his arms.

"I had grilled cheese and tomato soup, which seemed comforting when I ate it but makes really gross barf. Not that there's such a thing as nice barf, but as barf goes, that's a really bad combination. And my breath stinks. Do you have any mints or gum..."

"Digg, we're going to need," he says over the top of my head.

"On it," Digg answers him before Oliver even finishes, both of them talking like I can't hear. Digg jogs ahead of us, typing in the keycode and holding the door while Oliver carries me inside.

"I'm perfectly able to walk. I hit my head. My legs are fine."

"They certainly are," he says so quietly I'm not certain I heard him correctly.

"Am I hallucinating?"

He doesn't answer, just follows Digg down into the lair. Digg immediately turns on the bright overhead lights in the medical area and Oliver carefully lowers me to the table. He pulls off his gloves with his teeth, letting them drop to the floor.

"Felicity," Oliver demands in a calm voice. "I need you to look at me."

"I'm not concussed." But I do as he asks anyway, staring into his eyes. "Your eyes are ridiculously blue." I feel the flush on my cheeks as I make this obvious declaration.

He holds up one of his fingers and I dutifully follow it with my eyes. "Digg, an ice pack."

"Oliver," I say. "I'm fine. Really. It's just a bump."

"I shouldn't have," he begins, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "You can't."

"I thought we agreed this was my choice. And a headache beats the alternative." I try to smile, but the very real threat of what might have happened stops it. He wasn't supposed to have gotten that close to me. What a terrible way to die. I have to swallow several times and take deep breaths.

"Felicity," he begins again before he abruptly stops talking and examines my head. "It's not too bad," he says as his fingers gently move my hair out of the way and probe the tender spot on the back of my head.

"As I've been saying this whole time."

He holds out his hand, and Digg passes the ice pack to him. "This is going to sting at first," he warns before holding it in place.

"Says the man who sews up bullet holes in his own leg without anesthesia."

He shrugs as his fingers brush over the rest of me, looking for other injuries. "Antiseptic," he says to Digg, who passes it over along with a stack of gauze. Oliver keeps hold of the icepack while he carefully cleans the scrapes on my hands from when I fell. "That's different," he murmurs to me. "What about this," he asks, carefully moving my wrist this way and that.

"I'm fine," I say for what feels like the tenth time.

"What about this?" Now it's my knee he's moving, checking for injuries.

"Why is it different when I get hurt? Because you're stronger than I am?"

"No," he says, his eyes once again locked onto mine. "You are so incredibly brave. What you did tonight? There's a line between courageous and stupid, and you crossed it, but we couldn't have gotten so close." Oliver shakes his head. "I just hate that it was all for nothing. That you were in danger, that you got hurt, and we didn't..." His voice trails off and once more he focuses on the little wounds, acting like I'm about to bleed out.

"You'll get him."

"We'll get him," he corrects me.

"I need to think about how to protect other women, until we do," I say. "There has to be a way."

"You'll think of something," he quietly says. "You always do."

"I heard," I say. "About why Detective Lance asked you to help. Why he needs to catch this guy." Oliver acts like he can't hear me, but I know he's listening. "Sarah isn't your fault, you know, just like all those girls this guy killed aren't Detective Lance's fault." He doesn't answer, but I don't expect him to. "I'm glad we're working with him."

Oliver nods. "He's a good man. But you shouldn't have told him about your involvement with me. You could be arrested, Felicity, and I have enough people I care about in prison at the moment."

"My secret is safe with him," I say. "Besides, he figured it out on his own. And he doesn't know about Digg or you, so there's that."

"He said you vouched for me," Oliver says.

I nod, wincing when I move my head.

"Digg," Oliver says again, and Diggle passes over a couple of Tylenol and a glass of water. "Just sip that, okay, until we're sure your stomach is settled."

As much as I want to wash the taste out of my mouth, throwing up in the lair would be too humiliating, so I silently follow his orders and limit myself to small sips. After I swallow the pills and Oliver seems content that I'm not going to die from little scrapes, he once again lifts me. I'm sure damsel-in-distress isn't my best look, but I allow myself to bask in the safety of his strong arms. He's still wearing his green leather, and it's warm and supple against my cheek while he carries me from the medical area over to the sofa.

"I told Detective Lance the truth," I say. "That you're a good guy and I trust you. I just wish he knew it was you who was the hero."

"Digg's going to sit with you while I change," he says, rather than commenting. "I don't want you falling asleep for a while. I don't think you have a concussion, but just to be on the safe side."

"I'm really fine," I assure him when he hesitates and doesn't head for the shower. "I need to stop requiring rescues when I'm trying to help."

Oliver suddenly presses me to him and his lips brush against my forehead. "I couldn't do any of this without you," he whispers into my hair. "We wouldn't even have known where to look. You're the one who rescues me."


	6. Close Shave

_A/N: Expanded Oliver POV from Crucible (2.4)_

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

Close Shave

Maybe Digg thought he was helping when he explained how lonely secrets are, how heavy they are to bear. As if I don't already know that. But it's not been a week for good news. After the day I've had, the days I've been having, there's no way I can sleep without a serious workout. I need to be beyond exhausted. I need my mind to stop churning and my body to drop from fatigue.

I sent Diggle home because I knew I'd be late, but Felicity insisted she had things she needed to do. They exchanged a look when they thought I didn't notice. Now that Sarah's back, they can't decide if they're furious with me for lying or worried that I'm going to leave town again.

When I can't do another pull-up, I drop to the floor and grab my water bottle. I rest my hands on my hips and gulp air, but Felicity doesn't seem to notice. She didn't so much as glance at me while I worked out, choosing instead to squint at the computer screens and lean forward in her chair.

I want her to look at me. To say something. Anything. I need to know we're okay.

Her fingers don't falter on the keyboard and her eyes never stray from the screens. I can't tell if she's hacking into a database or figuring out logistics for a future mission or running background checks on anyone and everyone who might come into contact with me, but it's obvious she's intentionally not looking at me. She's still wearing her dress from the office, but her shoes are in a heap under the desk, her bare toes curled against the chill of the lair's floor.

I know she's going to be a while, so I take my time in the shower, enjoying the pounding of the scalding spray. Of all the things I missed about civilization, hot showers are definitely towards the top of the list. Thank God people have stopped asking what I missed the most because it was tedious smiling and lying and telling them what they wanted to hear: the crisp effervescence of perfectly chilled champagne or the smell of new leather in a fine Italian sports car or the silken lace of a supermodel's push-up bra. Those aren't the things I thought about while I was away. It was simple things that haunted me, little things I didn't appreciate enough and longed for with an intensity that frightened me.

I wonder what Sarah's missed the most.

Part of me understands why she insists we're both ghosts. Why she says we died. She thinks that because it's not entirely untrue. That's what Felicity can't understand. Even Digg, who's been to war, can't understand. It wasn't war, where Sarah and I were. It was hell. And to survive it, to live to not be able to tell anyone the horrible tales of where we'd been and what we'd done, the people we were did have to die.

Felicity says she wants to know, that I can trust her. But it has nothing to do with trust. I trust Felicity with my life, but I can't tell her my stories. I won't burden her. Once she knows the truth, she'll never be the same. We'll never be the same. And I need her exactly the way she is. In the whirlwind of the past days, there's only one thing I want to remember. It's not Sarah revealing herself and how grateful I am that she's alive even though she thinks her family is better off not knowing. It's not Laurel spiraling out of control and Detective Lance so desperate he actually asked me for help. The Mayor's in custody and we intercepted his weapons. Isabel Rochev is actually right, as much as I hate to admit it, because Queen Consolidated is in trouble and I don't know how to be CEO. I'm still plenty rich but it's not like it used to be. My mother is actually okay with the fact that the system wants to electrocute her. Roy's friend, who's also Sarah's friend, nearly died, and I wonder how much Thea knows. Felicity and Digg think I lied to them.

I take deep breathes and shake my head to clear all the unwanted thoughts. This is why I ran away after Tommy, but I can't do that again. I can't afford to be a ghost. There's too much to do and too many people counting on me, on this Oliver.

When I turn off the water, steam hangs heavy in the small room, too thick to see through, but I don't need the mirror. I open the new jar of my father's favorite shaving soap and work up a good lather with the brush he gave me, carefully covering my cheeks and neck with thick foam.

I used to stand on a stool in my father's bathroom as he lathered his face before parties. He'd let me wet his shaving brush, took my hands in his to help me turn the jar of fragrant soap into a rich cream we smoothed onto his cheeks in rapid circular movements. He stood behind me and I watched in the mirror as he shaved with a straight razor.

_Remember, Oliver, just because technology has made something easier doesn't mean it's better. It's important to learn how to do things well. Your wife will thank me one day when she kisses you after a proper shave._

Of course, by the time I actually needed to shave, I was too lazy to do it properly and didn't care if my scruff bothered the women I kissed. I unceremoniously dumped the leather kit he gave me when I graduated from high school, with its badger-hair brush and straight razor, in a cupboard in my bathroom. This is the first time I've used it. For her.

I pull on jeans but nothing else. With a towel draped over my bare shoulders, I step back out into the lair, steam rising off my skin in the sudden chill. But Felicity's still intent on her work and doesn't seem to notice me. I don't quite believe it, her concentration too forced to be entirely real, but I understand her need to pretend like things didn't happen.

There's a line somewhere that we've crossed since she and Digg brought me back from the island. I don't know when exactly, or how, but we're different. I feel it too. Maybe she was just making sure I didn't blow my cover when she licked her thumb and brushed it across my jaw, wiping away blood that wasn't mine before she straighten my bow tie and scolded me for being late. But I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and forget everything except her touch and the way her fingers made my whole face tingle and flush hot. Isabel Rochev wasn't fooled for a second, and Felicity giving me a spit-bath in front of not only the woman who's trying to steal my family's company but also Starling City's elite is definitely not appropriate behavior for an employee, even if she is my Executive Assistant. And yet nothing's felt quite so right as her hands on my face, one gently cupping the opposite cheek so I couldn't escape while the other cleaned my face.

It's the only good thing this week, the only happy story I've had in a long time.

I lean back, content to watch her for a minute, marveling at her fingers moving across the keys too fast to hear the individual clicks. The various computer screens flash with different information, which she acknowledges and memorizes almost as quickly as it appears, only to move onto the next.

"Felicity?" I quietly say, hesitant to interrupt her. But even though I know I shouldn't, I need her.

"Uh-huh," she murmurs in response.

"Can I show you something?"

"Just one..." Her voice trails off and her fingers fly even faster. She bites into her bottom lip as she concentrates, the unconscious act unbelievably sexy. "Okay. Yes. Um… Just. Yes." She nods at the screens as if pleased with what they've shown her. "What do you need?" She spins around in her chair, and her eyes pop when she sees me.

I gesture for her to join me at the table that holds the arrow rack, and she quietly squeaks before leaping up from the chair. We're both looking at my arrows, but she keeps glancing over at me.

"Oliver," she finally says. "I've seen your arrows. You. Um. Make them yourself, which is… good. Because there's something about a man wearing safety glasses. Which is to say, obviously, that I'm a total nerd. But they're nice. Your arrows, I mean. Of course, your glasses are nice too. They look incredibly... safe. And just so you know, there's something on your face. It looks very much like whipped cream and smells really, really good."

With a hand at her hip, I turn her so she's facing me. She gulps when I press her back against the stand and reach across her for one of my arrows. Our faces are almost touching, and I can hear her swallow when I hold up the arrow for her to see. The reflection of the overhead light winks in the sharpened edge. She looks at it, and then back at me, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"Proving I know how to shave," I say.

She opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

"I've never seen you clean shaven. Well, except in pictures. Not that I cyber-stalk you. Much. But, know you. Habit. Curiosity. Sometimes it's just boredom. Not that you're boring. I meant I did it because I was bored. Which isn't a very good reason, really. But privacy's dead anyway. And you haven't been clean shaven in a long time."

I don't want to tell her it's been since I left Starling City on the Queen's Gambit. There are so many things she can't ever know. No one can. And for a second, I feel the heat of the crucible Alderman Blood spoke of, and I wonder if Sarah's doing the right thing by letting her family mourn the memory of the girl they love rather than subject them to the woman she had to become.

Before my memories overwhelm me, I focus on Felicity, not wanting to think about anyone or anything else. I run the edge of my arrow down my cheek, around the line of my jaw, and down my neck, shaving off the layer of scruff I always leave because it's easier.

Her eyes are wide, the pupils dilated, but I give her a little smile as I wipe the residue on my towel and raise the arrow again. The room is completely silent except for the soft scraping sound as I move my face this way and that while I shave.

I trust my sense of touch since I don't have a mirror, focusing my gaze on her eyes as they watch the arrow held in my fingers. When I shave my chin and under my nose, carefully moving around my lips, she licks her own and shifts her hips against mine. I have to pause and take a breath so I don't cut myself on the sharp edge.

"Satisfied?" I say at last, wiping the arrow one more time against the towel around my neck.

"Hardly," she says, the blush immediately rising to her cheeks. "I mean, what I meant was, yes. Obviously. Of course you can shave. I always knew you could. I'm... going to just." She clears her throat. "Stop talking."

I reluctantly shift my weight back, away from her, when she suddenly reaches towards me, her hips once again pressed against mine.

"Wait. You missed a spot." She points with a shaking finger at my right cheek. "Right there."

I hand her the arrow. "If you would be so kind."

"Oh. No. That's a really bad idea. I mean, it's really sharp, which you know because you make them that way on purpose, and I'm a little shaky at the moment for... reasons. And I think..."

"Felicity," I say as I putting the arrow in her hand. I tilt my face towards her and lean back in. "I trust you." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. "Although it'd be better if you're looking."

"Right," she agrees, her eyes flashing open. "Of course. Deadly objects. Soft, soft faces with... very... delicious smelling skin."

She reaches towards me and gently presses the edge of the arrow against my cheek. She follows it with her thumb, smoothing over the skin she just shaved.

"There," she whispers, her thumb once more moving down my face. She wipes at my cheek with the clean edge of the towel. She cups my face in her hands, as if she thinks I could move away from her at this moment, or want to. She strokes my bare cheeks, first with just the tips of her fingers, and then the backs of her hands. She traces a single finger around my lips. "Perfect."

Her eyes are locked with mine, but she drops her hands to my chest, her fingertips ghosting around the scar near my collar bone as if she's trying to memorize it or find meaning in the angry red pattern.

"Please," I whisper, closing my eyes against the intensity of her gaze. "Don't."

I wanted her to look at me, yes. That's why I did this. But not like that. Not that part of me. It's damaged. Maybe even ruined. Maybe all of me is. Maybe I was wrong when I told Sarah she could come home. Maybe neither of us ever can. Not really.

Felicity can't be another Sarah. I won't let anything bad happen to her, not even me.

Once more her hands are cupping my face, and she won't let me look away from her. "Perfect," she repeats because she doesn't understand.

I have to clear the tightness in my throat before I can speak. "Get your things," I order, hating the distant tone in my voice. "I'll take you home."

She looks confused and more than a little hurt and the abrupt change in me, but she nods. I wipe the last of lather from the arrow before reaching across her again and returning it to the rack. She breathes deeply through her nose as it grazes my bared neck. I clench my fists, digging my nails painfully into my palms to keep from pulling her to me and rubbing my face against hers and the feel of her warm skin against mine and finding out if my dad was right all those years ago about kissing a woman after a proper shave.

"Thank you for all your help, Ms. Smoak," I quietly say, unable to move away from her like I know I should.

"My pleasure, Mr. Queen," she murmurs into my skin.


	7. Bath, Interrupted

_A/N: For... reasons... I had exactly an hour and a half this morning to watch the episode and write this. No really – I set the timer and everything. So please be gentle, kind readers, when you read (and hopefully review) this expanded Felicity POV from League of Assassins (2.5) _

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

Bath, Interrupted

I love my job. That needs to be completely clear. I really do. Sure, keeping all these secrets is hard sometimes, and I hate it when Oliver and Digg get hurt. I don't much care for getting hurt myself, now that I think about it. But what we do is important, and I love feeling like I'm doing my part to help. But there are times when there's only so much a girl can take. And I may be wicked smart, and it's no small wonder those two managed to get anything done without me, but days like this I feel exactly like a girl, so I did what any girl in my situation would do: came home, poured a glass of wine, lit a couple of candles, and drew a hot bath.

So when Oliver bursts through my bathroom door, I'm so shocked I sit up in the tub, sloshing water onto the floor, drop my wine, and scream. In that order. And then I stop screaming long enough to realize I'm sitting up in the tub wearing only bubbles and candlelight while Oliver Queen is staring at me with his mouth open, and then I scream again.

"Oliver! Don't look!" I sink as low into the tub as I can, the water lapping at my chin. But he immediately shuts his eyes. "What are you doing in my bathroom?"

Oliver opens his eyes and looks at me. "You didn't answer your phone."

"No looking!" I demand, and he dutifully closes them again.

"Habit," he says. "It's strange. You know, when I first got back, I had to make myself look at people because I was out of practice, and now it just happens. Or maybe it's because you're a beautiful naked woman in a bathtub." He grins a little, his eyes dramatically squeezed shut. It's that one-sided smile I love so much and see so little.

"Oh my God," I say, realizing the obvious now that I'm breathing again. To go from certain I'm not about to be killed by assassins in my bathtub, which would just be humiliating, although I suppose it really wouldn't matter because I'd be dead, to Oliver Queen seeing me naked and calling me beautiful in about two seconds is a lot to process. "Are you drunk?"

He holds his fingers very close together. "I shared some fine vodka with Digg. I wanted you to have some too, but you'd left."

"I do that sometimes," I reply, sorry that I missed drinking with the guys, even if me and vodka in the lair is a recipe for disaster because I say enough things that are better left unsaid when I'm sober and I learned the hard way that vodka creeps up on me. I hate to admit it, even to myself, but the idea that they drank without me hurts more than I'd like it to. I mean, it's not like I'm not always there. They could have waited. "I come home. Have a glass of wine in the privacy of my own bathtub. Relax until someone breaks in and makes me drop it because I think I'm about to be murdered."

"Shit!" Oliver exclaims. "Your wine glass! Did it cut you? Are you okay?"

I toss the empty glass, and it bounces off his head. Even drunk, he opens his eyes and snatches it from the air before it can fall to the floor.

"Recyclable plastic," I explain. He examines it as if he's never seen plastic cups before.

"You drink wine out of plastic cups?" he asks, looking horrified.

"Firstly, it's cheap wine, so don't be offended on its behalf. Not everyone has a wine cellar. Secondly, only when I'm in the bathtub." I inwardly grimace at how defensive I sound. "I don't want to accidentally slit my wrists and have my face eaten off by feral cats before someone notices I'm missing."

He looks back at me as he settles onto the floor. "You have cats?"

"No."

"Then how will wild cats get into your bathroom to eat you if you die by tragic wineglass accident?"

"It could happen. I mean, you got into my bathroom. How did you get into my bathroom?"

"I may have picked your lock when you didn't answer your phone," he says.

I suddenly realize I can track everyone's location on my tablet, but no one can track me. That's probably a bad idea that should be immediately remedied, even if I do spend most of my time safely in the lair.

"Well, I suppose that's better than kicking down the door or breaking a window." He nods. "Oliver, you're sitting in a puddle." He looks down and seems to notice his wet jeans for the first time. He shrugs. "There's extra towels." I point towards the cabinet behind him, and he reaches in and pulls one out, moping up the water and providing me with a glorious view of his jeans-clad bottom. But of course Oliver doesn't think to take an extra to sit on as cushion against the cold tiles. He merely puts the wet one next to the sink and settles back onto the floor, his legs stretched out in my small bathroom like he plans on staying for a while.

"After everything tonight..." His voice trails off, and he stares intently at my empty wine glass as if it holds answers. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And I brought vodka." He pulls a half-full bottle out of his jacket pocket.

"Are the Lances okay? Is that why we're celebrating?"

He shakes his head. "It's not happy vodka."

"I didn't realize there was such a thing as happy vodka."

"Maybe one of those drinks Thea overcharges for at the club? Lemon drops and Cosmopolitans and Appletinis." He shakes his head again. "I don't even want to image what an Appletini tastes like. They're this disturbing shade of green. But they seem more desperate than happy, those drinks. I suppose no one is ever happy when they're drinking, even something sweet and colored like candy." He sighs and pulls himself up off the floor and carefully rinses the soap off of my glass. "This was a gift," he says, pouring a generous portion into the glass and handing it to me. He keeps his eyes averted as he sinks back onto the floor. "And it's not happy, but I wanted to share it anyway."

I notice the label on the bottle for the first time. It's difficult to see in the candlelight, but I don't recognize it. It's obviously not a bottle Oliver got in the past year. He brought it home with him in the locked green trunk no one else is allowed to touch. I've found everything there is to find about Oliver on the internet, and some things I probably shouldn't have found, but I know the things about Oliver that matter are all kept in that trunk.

This vodka matters.

He leans his head back and raises the bottle. "Cheers."

"Cheers," I quietly say. He drinks from the bottle and I sip at the glass. "Oh!" I cough, the vodka stronger than anything I'm used to but going down smoothly enough.

He rubs his thumb over the bottle's label and seems lost in thought, content to sit quietly on my bathroom floor. As much as I dislike sitting naked in the tub of rapidly cooling water, I know this is important, so I don't tell him to get out or wait for me in the living room while I put on some clothes. The few minutes it would take may be enough to spook him into not telling me whatever it is he obviously wants to say. Apparently we're all a little rattled tonight.

I told myself I needed the bubbles and the wine because of the stitches. I'm getting better with injuries, but watching Oliver sew the jagged gash in Sarah's back made me queasy. But it wasn't the blood that bothered me. It was her. It was Sarah. She was so matter of fact, the way she stripped off her shirt, not even noticing, let alone caring, that I was standing right there, or Oliver. Like him, her body is a machine, and she declined anesthesia and never flinched when the needle went in and out as Oliver pulled the stitches tight.

I couldn't watch Oliver's hands while he was sewing, even though I've seen his handiwork and he does a fine job, making the ugliest of wounds look almost tidy by the time he's through. So I watched Sarah instead, and she was as relaxed as I am soaking in a bubble bath with a glass of wine.

Oliver makes it seem so easy, the way he came home and slipped back into his old life. He makes it easy for me to forget, but the fact is something terrible happened to him, just like something terrible happened to Sarah. I don't know what, and I don't know if he'll ever tell me, but it's worse than I thought. Much, much worse.

Seeing Sarah look peaceful while he sewed up her back scares me. Because maybe the only time Oliver's at peace is when he's hurting too. Maybe the only thing he can truly understand anymore is the clarity that comes with pain.

"Sarah's gone," he finally says. "She went to Detective Lance and kept him safe, but then she left. He had to watch her kill a man. She snapped his neck right in front of her father." He shakes his head and swallows again from the bottle. "She's so brave. To do that. To come clean. And he hugged her. He loves her still, even knowing who she is. He hugged her when the man she killed was still warm on the floor at their feet."

"Your family will love you too."

He shakes his head. "Tommy called me a murderer. A serial killer."

"Oliver, no," I say. "He was in shock, that's all. He would've come around."

"Thea and I, we told our mother that she doesn't have to be afraid of the trial. That Laurel can uncover all her secrets, and she can count on us to forgive her, no matter what. And she trusts that we will. But I..." He rubs his eyes with one hand and hangs his head. "I lie, Felicity. All the time. To everyone."

"That's not true," I say. "You just choose which truths to share with which people. You're not a liar, Oliver. And people do care about you, and would continue to if you told them more of the truth."

"I didn't spend five years on Lian Yu," he says. "I told Diggle that tonight, and I wanted to tell you too. There's a truth for you."

"Duh. Tell me something I don't know." Oliver's eyes flash open, and when they lock with mine, I shrug. "It's been obvious for some time there's a lot more to the story. And it's not like bottles of nice Russian vodka are lying around deserted islands. Neither are Bratva star tattoos. And you didn't become a ninja warrior master archer guy by yourself. You didn't torture yourself either. Anyone who believes that whole 'I was alone for five years' is seriously delusional or just plain stupid. I'm neither."

"Except when it comes to theories about wild cats."

I can't help but smile and nod. "Well, that's different." He smiles too and makes a big point of closing his eyes again. We both swallow more vodka, and the room is so quiet I can hear the comforting sound of him breathing. I watch the flickering light from the candles play across his face, the shadows along his jaw accentuating the fine lines.

"I mean it," I finally whisper. "Tell me something I don't know. Please." He doesn't say anything for a long time. "Just one thing," I gently insist. "It's good for you to talk, Oliver. Digg and I, we can take it. You can tell us anything."

"I fell in love," he finally says. "Would you believe that?"

I sadly smile and nod. "Yes."

Oliver Queen, the lover. Even now, more damaged than I ever imagined, he still loves. He doesn't know how else to be. There was Laurel and Sarah and Helena and McKenna. He loves so much and so completely. Yes, Oliver Queen would find a woman, no doubt a beautiful and impressive one, and fall in love with her, even on an island believed to be uninhabited.

"She's the one who taught me how to shoot. I wear the green hood for her."

I bite my tongue to keep from asking what happened to her. Maybe she's an assassin, like Sarah. Or maybe she died. Oliver's love life is downright tragic, and hearing about this woman who was an archer and wore a green hood too fills my heart with an infinite sadness.

His eyes are still closed, but I raise my glass and silently toast because him opening up, even just this little bit, is a start. I drain the glass in one swallow, and like Oliver said, it isn't happy vodka, but he shared it. And that's something.


	8. The Worst Kind of Pain - Part One

_A/N: Expanded Oliver POV from Keep Your Enemies Closer (2.6). In the interest of full disclosure, I lifted some of the dialog (with a few minor changes to suit my purposes) from the episode. I also reference the previous chapter of this fic, where Oliver bursts into Felicity's bathroom. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

The Worst Kind of Pain - Part One

I'm not used to the hollow sound of Felicity's silence. The absence of her voice is deafening and painful and difficult to endure. Her silence settled in my chest, a tight and miserable feeling that refuses to be ignored even though she seems perfectly content ignoring me. She acted like I didn't exist during the flight home, busying herself with her tablet before curling up in one of the big leather chairs with a blanket and headphones, her eyes covered with a mask she requested from the flight attendant. Although she pretended to be asleep, I knew from watching her fidget and breathe that she was as wide awake as I was the entire time.

I drove from the airport so Diggle could sit in the back with Lyla, which left Felicity riding shot-gun. We dropped them off first, and other than grasping his hand and repeating that she was so relieved he was safe, she didn't say a word. As we drove to her apartment in stony silence, she resolutely avoided my eyes, and when I offered to carry up her bag, she merely snorted, raised a single eyebrow, and grabbed her carry on. She opened the car door and hopped out practically before I stopped at the curb.

She was already at her desk when I got to the office this morning even though Digg took the day off, but she didn't look up from her computer, her fingers flying across the keys when I walked by. I even brought her coffee, thinking it would at least make her smile and say something. Anything. Hell, I'd be happy with her scolding me for being an idiot or mocking me, as if what we agreed about things staying in Russia could actually happen. But she didn't say a word or acknowledge the steaming mug, and after I stood there in silence for too many awkward seconds, I went back to my desk, determined to at least try and get some work done.

I haven't gone this long without hearing her voice directed at me since she and Digg brought me back from the island, and I miss it. God, I miss her. But I don't know what to say to make her understand and set things right between us. I keep enough from her that I'm not about to start lying too, but the truth sounds so terrible. I don't want her to think I'm still _that_ Oliver.

The truth of the matter is that Isabel was right. I was lonely. I've been lonely for so long I don't remember how else to be. I was worried about Digg and feeling guilty that it was him instead of me inside that prison. So much could have gone wrong, and he would've been worse than dead if he had to stay there. He always has my back, and I subjected him to torture with no end in sight. When Isabel Rochev sat down on that sofa with me in the bar, I had too much time to kill and far too much energy. I'm not blind. I've seen the way she looks at me, and Isobel offered the most expedient and efficient way of waiting so I could focus and do what needed to be done to get Digg and Lyla out safely.

It's certainly not the first time Oliver Queen found momentary distraction in the arms of someone better left alone. But Isabel is a strong woman more than capable of making her own decision. We were two consenting adults, and I was upfront with her about what would and would not be happening. She knew what to expect, and the arrangement seemed mutually beneficial and probably won't be repeated.

The old Oliver wouldn't have given such a dalliance a second thought. Only I'm not that Oliver anymore. I haven't been in a long time. I'm this Oliver, and this Oliver has Felicity.

I can't stop seeing her face in the hallway outside my hotel room. Every time I close my eyes, there's her wide eyes, shocked and hurt and not hiding behind glasses, staring at me when Isabel breezed past with a casual toss of mussed hair and the top of her dress not quite zipped.

"Why her?" Felicity finally asks. The words almost choke her, as if she really didn't want to ask but couldn't stop herself. "I mean, besides the obvious leggy-model reason. I'll give you that: you always go for the gorgeous ones. And I mean, why not? You're Oliver Queen."

I have to hold onto the edge of her desk to keep from jumping over it and shaking her. She's so smart. Felicity is the smartest person I've ever known. How can she seem to think I think everyone else is more beautiful than she is? God, she's gorgeous. So stunning everyone assumes she's my assistant because of her good looks.

"Felicity," I say with the sigh. "It just." I shake my head and remember how much I hate being cold and the comforting and familiar warmth of vodka and Isabel's surprised smile when she realized I spoke Russian. I'd never seen her smile, and it softened the harsh lines of her face as she said she could see me.

No one ever sees me. No one except Felicity.

"It just kind of happened," I lamely offer because that's as much of the truth as I'm willing to reveal. "It didn't mean anything."

Felicity looks down at her hands, and I hate myself for admitting it. It's such a cliché, that line. It's what the old Oliver I'm ashamed of would've said to the woman he actually cared about when he got caught with someone else. Only this time it's actually true. Isabel didn't mean anything. She doesn't. She won't. She was just the brunette substitute for the blond I can't have and shouldn't want.

I used her. It was fast and hard between us. Sweaty skin and desperation but closed eyes and no tenderness. We didn't even completely undress because I didn't have the time and I didn't want her to see the tattoo. She would recognize a Bratva star. But also, I just didn't care that much. I didn't want to see her, and I didn't want her to see me, and it was as impersonal as it gets.

When Isabel teased that I'm late for everything, so what could possibly tempt me to be punctual now, I couldn't stand to hear the sound of her voice. It wasn't the voice I wanted to hear. So I closed my eyes and pushed her to her knees so she couldn't talk anymore because I'm a selfish, fucked-up bastard.

"Because of the life that I lead," I begin, trying to think of a way to say what I mean without making this worse. "I just think it's better to not be with someone I could really care about."

I want to tell Felicity the truth. The whole truth. She deserves that much from me. But I can't tell her I care about her so much it scares me. That I worry I'll never be whole again. That I'm trying to atone, to be better, but maybe I'll never be the kind of man she deserves. My life is a lie. I'm a killer, and every time I put on the hood, I could be killed. It's dangerous enough that she works with me. If we were together, together the way I want to be together, she would be horrifically and unforgivably vulnerable. She would be worse off for knowing me and caring about me than she would be alone, and I can't bear the thought of her getting hurt because of me.

Hurt by me. Because in the end, I can't give Felicity what she needs. What she should have. I'm a broken man good only for mindless fucking and meaningless smile and stopping bad guys while hiding underneath a hood.

I want to fall to my knees at her feet and say these things. But I don't. I can't. I already ask too much of her. And Felicity still won't even look at me. Once more her silence hangs in the air, filling my chest with a tightness that hurts so much it's hard to breathe.

"Of course, Mr. Queen." She curtly nods before picking up the file and walks away without looking at me.

"Felicity," I plead.

"Well," she says, pausing and turning to look at me. Her eyes are wet but her voice doesn't tremble. "I think you deserve better than her."

And I know she didn't hear all the things I left unsaid. All she heard was that I didn't want her.

"Felicity," I say again.

"I need to deliver this file, Mr. Queen. Ms. Rochev doesn't seem like the type who likes to be kept waiting. " She nods again, the gesture polite and formal, and leaves the room without looking back.

* * *

It's impossible to not stare at my watch and wait for her to safely return to her desk. I remind myself she just went to the floor below, but Digg's not here to accompany her. Ten minutes pass. And then twenty. Thirty minutes after she left, and I'm pacing in front of the windows, not seeing a damn thing except all the ways she could be hurt. Dying. Already dead.

Maybe she died thinking I could ever want anyone more than I want her. That there will ever be someone else for me.

Or maybe she just walked away for good. Maybe I've lost her forever.

I pick up the phone to dial security when I remember she said she'd put a tracking app on my cell, just in case. She did it after I broke into her apartment, and she smiled and playfully rolled her eyes when she handed me back my updated phone and a key to her apartment.

I quickly pull up her location and see she's in the ladies restroom on this floor. I pocket my phone and walk briskly in that direction, not even pausing when I push open the door and stride in.

There's a secretary, someone whose name I should probably know but don't, reapplying lipstick at the mirror. She jumps when she sees me, quickly dropping the tube onto the floor.

"Mr. Queen," she stammers. "Is there something I can do...?"

"Leave," I order with a tight smile. She nods and grabs her bag and scampers out the door. I lock it behind her and curse the full floor-to-ceiling doors on the stalls. "Felicity?" I quietly ask. "I know you're in here."

"Go away," she says from the stall furthest from the door.

I knock gently on the wood. "Can I come in?"

"No!"

"Felicity, open the damn door."

"This is the ladies restroom, Oliver. You can't just waltz in here like you own the place."

I clench my fists and swallow when I hear her stuffy nose and the tears in her voice.

"I do own the place. This is my bathroom, and if you don't open this door," I threaten. "So help me, I will kick it down." Silence. "You know I will." More silence. "Fine," I say. "Have it your way, but you'd better stand back. One. Two." I raise my leg and get ready to kick on three when I hear the metallic click of the lock.

When I open the door, I find Felicity sitting on the closed toilet seat, her eyes puffy and red.

"Are you satisfied?" she asks, glaring at me. "My humiliation is now complete, and if I could be a super-hero, I'd be the girl who can go through walls because I'd really like to just sink through the floor and die. So thanks for that. 'Cause knowing Digg's been taken to a Russian prison to rescue an ex-wife I didn't even know he had and witnessing Isabel Rochev's utterly shameless walk of shame and jet lag isn't enough fun. And it's really cold in Russia! And you never once commented on my hat and it's really cute. And my God! What is wrong with you? Why are you always barging in on me when I'm in the bathroom?"

"You're just sitting here," I point out. "You didn't come back, and I was worried."

"Now you're worried? Great. Just great. Perfect timing. What every girl wants when she's having an obviously irrational girl-moment is for a man to threaten to break down the door so he can watch her cry. Well, I'm fine. Fit as a fiddle, sir. Consider this my sanity break because I don't smoke but I'm considering taking it up."

"Felicity." I drop to my knees and take her hands in mine, but she angrily snatches them away. "Felicity, it didn't mean..."

"Don't you dare say it!" she interrupts, her voice echoing. "Don't tell me it didn't mean anything. Because maybe it didn't to you or to her, although I seriously doubt she's as heartless as she'd like to pretend she is. But it means something to me. So just." She sighs and closes her eyes. Silent tears run down both cheeks and she swallows. "Just don't say that it doesn't mean anything. Because it does. And you know it."

I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and gently dab at her cheeks. She doesn't move anyway or yell at me again, like I expect her to. In fact, she just cries harder. She doesn't make a sound, but her shoulders shake as the tears weave their watery paths down her cheeks.

"Oliver," she finally whispers when she's spent. "Please. Just go away. If you feel anything for me at all, you will walk away and give me a few minutes to splash some water on my face and find what's left of my dignity. We'll pretend this never happened. Russia and bathrooms, okay? Please. Just." She swallows and whispers, "Please."

"I need you to understand," I begin.

"I do understand," she says. She finally opens her eyes and looks at me, and the hurt I see in them, the hurt I put there, is its own kind of exquisite torture. "Perfectly."

"No, you don't." I take her hands again, only this time she lets me. "Listen," I insist. "I needed to make sure she wasn't suspicious about what we were really doing. We'd been drinking. And she smiled when she realized I spoke Russian, and she told me I was lonely like her."

"Oliver, please stop."

"I was worried about Digg and trying to kill some time."

"Oh my God! Stop. Just." Felicity takes a deep breath and shakes her head. "Please," she whispers. "Please. I really don't want to know."

"I didn't even kiss her back."

She looks like she doesn't believe me.

"I didn't," I promise.

"What difference does that make?" she asks. "This isn't _Pretty Woman_. You're better than that, Oliver, and it's not like she found the cure to cancer when she deduced that you're lonely. What billionaire isn't, let alone one with your cover story? And you know what? You don't have to be. You chose to be lonely. That's all on you."

"Felicity, I can't. There are things about me I can't..."

"Yes, you could," she interrupts. "You don't. You're choosing to bear it all alone and in silence. And you don't owe me explanations regarding who you spend your time with. I am your employee, and you're a grown man capable of making his own mistakes however he sees fit. Now please get out of my way. I have work to do, and so do you."

Before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her. I keep my eyes open because I can't bear to miss a single moment of this stolen kiss that shouldn't be mine. Her eyes are open at first, shocked and more than a little scared. Her lips aren't moving to return my kiss and she tries to pull away. But I gently cup the back of her head, her hair so soft beneath my fingers, and redouble my efforts.

I kiss Felicity like my life depends on it because I realize, in that moment, it does. If she rejects me now, I don't know what I'll do. I try to tell her all the things I don't have words for. I kiss into her all the feelings I thought were dead and gone and lost during those five long years, and how she's made me realize they're still with me.

She finally sighs and surrenders, closing her eyes and reaching up to touch my face. I close my eyes too so I can memorize every sensation, from the warm silk of her lips to the wet teasing of her tongue in my mouth to the slight sting of her nails on the back of head as she grasps at the short hair and pulls me closer.

I don't know how long it lasts, but it's both forever and a second. When she moves away again, I let her. And she rests her forehead against mine, her lips almost touching mine while she takes big breaths.

She doesn't say anything as she stands and maneuvers around me out of the stall. I'm still kneeling on the floor as I watch her splash water on her face, washing away any lingering proof of our kiss. She looks at me in the mirror, and I watch a final tear escape before she clears her throat and straightens her shoulders.

I realize she will continue our work, but this thing between us, this undefinable thing that's happened since she brought me back from the island, is over. It's done. Felicity isn't going to wait for me. I close my eyes for a second and imagine her with someone else. A faceless yet handsome man. Kind and gentle. Smart and funny and good in bed. The man she should have. I can see her in his arms, and the inevitability of that vision coming true is the worst kind of pain.

"Felicity," I whisper, begging her reflection in the mirror. But her eyes are dry and her mask is as effective as mine.

"Break's over, Mr. Queen. We have work to do."


	9. The Worst Kind of Pain - Part Two

_A/N: This expanded Felicity POV from Keep Your Enemies Closer (2.6) picks up towards end of the previous chapter, The Worst Kind of Pain – Part One. My apologies for the angst, gentle readers, but I write in-canon, so I have to work with what the Arrow writers give me. Please feel free to scold me._

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

The Worst Kind of Pain – Part Two

Even after months of working with Oliver, it's impossible for me to take all the luxuries for granted. I fell a little bit in love with the buttery leather of the oversized chairs in the jet. And the private entrance to the airport with no waiting is the only way to travel. The car pulls up in the hanger, and someone is there waiting for us. Our passports are quickly inspected, and we're off. Simple.

Even the bathroom in the office is nicer than the one in my apartment. Admittedly, the one up here, on the Executive Floor, is better than the one I used when I worked in the IT Department, and this one isn't nearly as nice as Oliver's private bathroom off his office. But it's lovely, really. Quiet, since so few people work up here, and most of them are men. Whoever designed it thoughtfully made the stalls with real walls that go all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

I sit on the closed toilet seat and stare at the grain of the wood of the door and try to find a pattern. It's the closest occupation I have at the moment for not thinking about everything I'm trying not to think about, and it's failing miserably.

My mind doesn't go blank. It never has, although there are plenty of times I wish it would. Mostly, I suffer the opposite problem: layers upon layers of ideas and theories and analysis jostle with abstractions and useless trivia and song lyrics and speculation. I have too many thoughts moving too quickly. It takes so much longer to explain all that I'm thinking at any given moment than it does to actually think it. That's why I blurt out such stupid things all the time. With my mind busy and focused on so many other things, my filter doesn't always work.

But when I saw _her_ over his shoulder through the open hotel door, reaching a long arm behind her back to zip up her dress, I couldn't have told you my name if my life depended on it.

For the first time in my life, ever, my mind went blank. I didn't have a thought. I couldn't find words.

My brain, which has never failed me, momentarily ceased to function when Isabel Rochev sauntered past with a smug look on her face.

_She deserves the night off, don't you think?_

It didn't even occur to me to be insulted until we were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I mean, I heard her words at the time, but they didn't sink in until hours later. But she said it, she said that terrible thing with that bitchy tone, because she thinks I'm Oliver Queen's whore. She thinks I come to his room and _assist _him, which is exactly the reason why I was so mad when he took me out of the IT Department in the first place, so I shouldn't be at all surprised. Except my brain short-circuited when she tossed her I-just-got-laid hair over her shoulder and smiled a contented "Yeah, that was good" smile at him.

As it turns out, the bitch can smile. Oliver made her smile. And she was so certain he wouldn't need me because she'd just done what she thinks is my job, and she thinks she did it better.

Well let me tell you, Isabel Rochev: no one does my job better than I do.

So there I was, trying really hard not to be a girl and cry in the hallway outside Oliver's hotel room. I don't even know why there was suddenly not enough air to breathe and the hot sting of tears sent my contacts shifting uncomfortably in my eyes. All I knew was crying was most definitely not an option because then I'd have to quit my job and change my name and move to Antarctica, and after this trip I can say with certainty that while I find snow festive around Christmas time even though I'm Jewish and I really like my new hat, I don't like being that cold. And somewhere during that ridiculous mockery of a thought, my brain remembered I have a mouth and I should say something, something not judgmental or accusatory, and saying it with a tone that at least vaguely resembled a normal voice would be helpful, but all I could mumble was absurdities that don't even make sense about "What happens in Russia," and wait for the next elevator.

But after Digg and Lyla were rescued and patched up, after we were on our way home, mission accomplished, everyone safe and sound, I finally realized what she meant back at the hotel. It took every bit of my self-control, and some I must've picked up from Oliver and Digg along the way because moderation really isn't my thing, to not leap across the aisle and smack the smug post-orgasmic glow off her face.

I don't care if she is some kind of titan of business who only smiles after she's... been... with Oliver. I train with Digg. I could've totally wailed all over her and her overpriced boots.

But I didn't. I just stopped pretending I was working, put away my tablet, and settled into the chair I wish I could have moved to the lair. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep on the plane even though I desperately needed to, so I just pretended to be unconscious. And since I know there was no way I wouldn't be able to not look at him, and I didn't want to see him sitting next to her, I asked the flight attendant for one of those masks. I've never worn one before, but I liked the silken weight of it over my eyes. I put on headphones but didn't bother with music. I just listened to the soothing hum of the engines as we hurtled across the ocean and all I could see in the dark was them. Together.

Needless to say, after stewing for the entirety of a trans-Atlantic flight, I didn't trust myself to say anything to him. Anything at all. It was so weird, sitting in the car with him and not talking. We used to do that, when I first started helping him, back when he used to come to my office with the most painfully obvious cover-stories. We didn't chit-chat or share pleasantries or make plans back then. I just did what he asked of me with the occasional stupid comment falling out of my mouth.

He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I felt really badly for making him uncomfortable, but I really didn't have anything to say. I just got out of the car, took a quick shower, and headed back to the office because we really didn't have time for that trip. As cover stories go, running an international corporation is a time-consuming one.

I had to work really hard to ignore him when he brought me coffee. Oliver Queen, who I'm shocked even knows how to make coffee, carefully set down a steaming mug and smiled his most charming and adorable smile. A quick inspection of the color told me he'd gotten just the right amount of milk in it too. And he waited too long, leaning his hard thigh against my desk and distracting me. I was just getting ready to open my mouth when he stiffly nodded and walked back to his office, leaving me alone with my coffee that I couldn't drink for fear it would make me cry.

Seriously, I hate being a girl sometimes. Crying for no reason is just not acceptable. I tell myself there's no need to cry, but at least today, I'm not listening to myself. The guys are all "we're having drinks!" and don't even think to invite me. They hover and fuss when it's completely unnecessary because apparently I'm fragile like a flower or something. They need me to organize and plan and gather information, but then they expect me to just sit back and wait patiently for them to return from the real action.

I didn't even know Diggle had a wife! How did I not know that? How did he hide the records? Why would he not mention that he and Lyla were married? He's willing to die for her, and yet all I knew was that she was an army buddy and a contact he used as a source for information. So help me, those two are about as forthcoming with information as... well... something really not very forthcoming.

Stupid clenched jaws.

I decide to blame the tears on exhaustion. I'm not a crier by nature, and this is just... jet lag. Obviously. It's not because Oliver had sex. He's had sex before and I didn't cry about it because why would I? He's not my... anything. He's Oliver. Just Oliver. We're friends. He's my boss. We fight crime together. That's exactly what we are.

_Because of the life that I lead, I just think it's better to not be with someone I could really care about._

Oh, Oliver. I could just shake him sometimes. Could he be more tragic with his choice of women? He always has to go for the damaged ones. Gorgeous Laurel will never be able to forgive him. Not entirely. She wants to. She thinks she has. But there's too much history between them and anything other than an occasional coffee is a lost cause. Sarah is an assassin with serious personal issues. Helena is a deranged, heart-broken murderer who'll probably die in prison. McKenna shouldn't count because he was just with her because he couldn't have Laurel, and yet he still feels guilty because she was hurt and he blames himself even though it wasn't his fault. And now Isabel Rochev, the ice queen who's trying her best to take over his company and fire us all.

He's better than that. He's better than all of those broken women put together. But he goes for them because he thinks he's damaged. He thinks that's all he deserves or ought to have, meaningless physical interactions with admittedly beautiful women who don't know him. And he's so stubborn that he won't see it any other way.

After all he's been through, he needs someone he can trust. He needs someone who knows his terrible truths and loves him anyway. He needs someone he can be himself with. Not Oliver Queen, billionaire and CEO. Not the Vigilante. Not him trying and failing to be Oli again because that person doesn't exist anymore. He needs to feel safe enough with someone to be Oliver. Oliver, as he is now. Just Oliver.

I hear the door open, and I immediately wipe my hands over my face, scrubbing away tears even though I know whoever it is can't see me. I stay perfectly silent as she uses the restroom and washes her hands and lingers at the sink.

I'm good at being invisible, apparently. When I took the file to Isabel Rochev's office and politely informed her Mr. Queen wanted her to have it right away, she didn't even acknowledge my presence in the universe. I waited a second before setting it down on her desk and walking out. But before I even got through the door, I heard her chair shift as she reached for it. She'd obviously been waiting for it. She just didn't want to sink so low as to speak to the girl Oliver Queen pays to blow him in the office.

I really don't like that woman.

The door bangs open again, and I hear the metallic clatter of lipstick dropping onto the floor, and whoever was reapplying her make-up stammers because it's Oliver standing in the ladies restroom.

Great. Just great. He locks the outer door and threatens to kick down the stall before I give up the idea of retaining any dignity and let him in. And that's how I find myself sitting on a toilet with Oliver Queen kneeling on a bathroom floor at my feet in a three thousand dollar suit.

"Felicity, it didn't mean..." he begins.

"Don't you dare say it!" I snap. I hate the way my voice echoes too loudly against all the tiles. I sound downright hysterical and I can only imagine what the security guys are thinking about this spectacle being filmed for posterity. They've probably sold tickets and concessions to the show. But I can't stay silent any longer.

"Don't tell me it didn't mean anything. Because maybe it didn't to you or to her, although I seriously doubt she's as heartless as she'd like to pretend she is. But it means something to me. So just."

I close my eyes and send a silent plea into the universe that I'll stop crying. But the universe doesn't seem to be in the mood to grant wishes today, at least not to me, because hot tears continue to flow. I feel my cheeks burn with humiliation, and I think I actually hate Oliver for not going away like I asked him to. For all the times he's vanished without a trace, why won't he now?

"Just don't say that it doesn't mean anything," I whisper. "Because it does. And you know it."

My eyes are still closed, but Oliver shifts his weight, and the next thing I know is the feel of cool cloth against my cheeks. Oliver Queen is now wiping my eyes with his own handkerchief. From the floor. In the bathroom.

It's too much. This man who works so hard and tries to do the right thing and saves so many people and doesn't think nearly enough of himself is not turning away from me in disgust. He's being unbelievably kind. And as much as I want to hate him at this moment, as much as I'd love to hit him and scream for being such a frustrating idiot, his gentleness makes me cry harder, all the tears I've swallowed since that hotel hallway intent on getting out of my system right now.

He doesn't say a word or try to shush me or run away. He just continues to kneel at my feet, occasionally wiping the soft handkerchief against my face, while I sob.

It's definitely the jet lag.

But eventually I start to feel better. I'm already this humiliated, so I don't even try to pull myself together prematurely. I just cry until there aren't any tears left.

"Oliver," I'm finally able say. He presses his handkerchief into my hand and rests his now-empty fingers on my knee. His cotton blows my mind. I never knew cotton could be softer than silk. Softer than anything I've ever felt besides his freshly shaved face. "Please. Just go away. If you feel anything for me at all, you will walk away and give me a few minutes to splash some water on my face and find what's left of my dignity. We'll pretend this never happened. Russia and bathrooms, okay? Please. Just." I swallow and try to think of a way to explain why I was crying like that other than saying I'm just a girl and an idiot when I decide it's a lost cause. "Please."

"I need you to understand," he insists.

"I do understand."

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see are his stunningly blue ones staring intently at me. He looks so worried, so sad, that I almost start crying all over again. He has enough to worry about without thinking I'm losing my mind.

I don't know what he said to those men in Russia, the ones who stopped pointing their guns at us and scurried off. He obviously didn't say please like he told me, but something tells me he couldn't look more different than he does now when he said whatever it was he said that wasn't please.

"I understand perfectly."

"No, you don't." He takes my hands in his, the ruined handkerchief smashed into my fist. "Listen, I needed to make sure she wasn't suspicious about what we were really doing in Moscow. We'd been drinking. And she smiled when she realized I spoke Russian, and she told me I was lonely like her. I didn't even kiss her back."

"What difference does that make? You're better than that, Oliver, and it's not like she found the cure to cancer when she deduced that you're lonely. What billionaire isn't, let alone one with your cover story? And you know what? You don't have to be. You chose to be lonely. That's all on you."

I am such an idiot. I thought him in my bathroom the other night meant something. I thought we were making progress. Baby steps, sure, but forward momentum.

"Felicity, I can't. There are things about me I can't..."

"Yes, you could," I interrupt before I get mad at him again. "You don't. You're choosing to bear it all alone and in silence. And you don't owe me explanations regarding who you spend your time with. I am your employee, and you're a grown man capable of making his own mistakes however he sees fit. Now please get out of my way. I have work to do, and so do you."

He hesitates, and before I realize what's happening, he leans in and kisses me. For the second time in my life, my mind goes completely blank. Part of me is aware of the fact that Oliver is kissing me. He's kissing me in a frickin' ladies room. My brain comes back to me with a montage of all the paparazzi pictures from before, all the girls he was photographed with, and I can't help but start doing the math and coming up with a rough estimate of how many women he's probably kissed in bathrooms. Which is quite possibly the worst thing to think about when Oliver's lips are on mine.

It's not until he cups the back of my head, his hand so tentative and trembling slightly, that I realize I'm just sitting here. I haven't kissed him back. And I don't know if I should.

Oliver cares about me. I know this. Of course he does. I'm his Girl-Wednesday, as I now think of myself even though I wouldn't admit it to him. But it's not like this between us. Sure, there have been moments. Maybe. Time when I've thought perhaps or one day... But no. Oliver doesn't think of me like this. He's kissing me not because he wants to or wants me. He just thinks I'm jealous because of Isabel, and he and Digg can't do what they do without me behind the scenes. He needs to make sure I'm not quitting.

This is a pity kiss.

Only then something happens. I'm still not moving, but I tell my brain to stop. And it actually does. And I realize how soft Oliver's lips are. I know how strong he is, how easily he could break my bones if he wanted. But he's not forcing himself on me. His kiss is almost shy. The scruff on his face makes me wish he'd done this before, that time he shaved in front of me and his cheeks felt like silk beneath my fingers. But the soft scratch of his stubble feels nice too.

Very nice. Better than nice. More luxurious than I have words to describe.

I stop fighting myself and close my eyes. With them closed, all I can feel is Oliver. All I know is Oliver. He is my every thought, every sensation. His smell, his taste, the wet warmth of his tongue in my mouth. In the dark, he becomes my entire world. Just Oliver.

I ghost my fingertips blindly around his face, feeling his closed eyelids and the long lashes I suddenly want desperately to lick. I trace the delicate whirls of his ear and tug gently on the short hair at the back of his neck.

He makes a sound I almost feel more than I hear, something primal and male that comes from the back of his throat. A cross between a growl and a purr. And he shifts he weight and presses me tightly against his chest.

_His thighs must be on fire from kneeling like that _is the thought that makes me remember who I am and where I am and who I'm with and all the ways this is a terrible idea.

He is Oliver Queen. And I... I am Felicity Smoak. His assistant. His Girl-Wednesday.

It actually hurts when I shift my body away from him. I move ever so slightly, but he lets me. And I know I need to stand up and step away from him. I need to not smell him and taste him and feel him. But I allow myself one final indulgence, one luxurious moment when I rest my forehead against his and breathe his gasping breaths into my lungs.

He will blame himself for this. He'll think he took advantage of me and he'll feel guilty and hate himself. And he can't afford to do that. Starling City and Queen Consolidated can't afford for him to do that. He needs to get his head back in the game.

I don't trust my voice when I stand up. I can't even look at him when I maneuver around him, steadying my shaking knees with a hand on his shoulder. I close my eyes and hold onto the counter while I wait for the water to run warm, and when I'm confident I won't cry again, I open my eyes and splash the delicious smell of Oliver off of my hands and from my face. I cup water to my mouth and swish the taste of him from my lips.

A single, treacherous tear escapes as I wash away Oliver's pity.

This wasn't his fault. It's mine. I know better. And he deserves better than to think he needs to kiss me to make sure I don't leave our work unfinish. And I should never have made him feel like he had to do that.

I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders as I dry my hands and face. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and carefully arrange my features. Oliver does this all the time, makes his face unreadable. I can do this. We'll just... pretend like this never happened.

I ignore the pain that settles in my chest, reminding my heart that it's not broken. Hearts don't break. They pump blood. They don't feel feelings. My brain does that, and my brain doesn't fail me.

My heart is just fine.

"Break's over, Mr. Queen," I politely inform my boss, ready at last to turn and face him. "We have work to do."

He nods before getting to his feet in a single graceful motion that's impossible to not notice and admire. "Of course, Ms. Smoak."

I refold his handkerchief and am halfway to handing it back to him when I realize my tears have ruined it. He probably has drawers full of expensive handkerchiefs.

"I'll just throw this away."

"No!" he says. He reaches forward and stops my hand with his fingers on my wrist. He pulls them away quickly, but I feel the ghost of their warmth. "I want to keep it." I watch as he holds it tightly for a second, his closed fist resting against his chest, before pocketing it and looking at me. "Shall we?"

He nods towards the door, unlocks it, and I follow him back to the office.


	10. Crash and Burn

_A/N: Expanded Oliver POV from State V. Queen (2.7). Again, full disclosure: I lifted some of this dialog, but the scene has been altered by creative license. I hope you enjoy my mashed-up rendition of Oliver and Felicity in the lair. _

* * *

**Oliver: "If you ever need to tell someone about your day, you can tell me." (Salvation – 1.18)**

* * *

Crash and Burn

Reassured that Digg's going to fully recover and Felicity is really all right, I glance at my watch and cringe. They've had a rough day, and I want to see them both safely home, but I need to go and play Oli or face the wrath of my sister. Again.

"I need to meet my family," I say, wishing I could have one night, just one night, when I don't feel like I'm letting someone down. "You guys should go home. Get some rest."

Digg nods and grasps my shoulder. While it doesn't hurt nearly as much as Thea's direct-hit to where the Count shot me, what's become our version of a fist-bump sends fingers of burning pain down my arm. I swallow the grimace so he'll go home and go to bed and not worry about me, but I'm pretty sure it's bleeding again. Dammit. I'd hoped to get away with butterflies because it's just a graze, but it probably needs stitching and I'm already running late.

Felicity lingers, looking at me with those big eyes that always seem to see right through me. The blanket draped around her shoulders makes her look very young and delicate even though I know she's tougher than she looks. What on earth was she thinking tonight, going after the Count by herself? And why did Diggle let her? He should've called me. I would have...

Well, that's the problem. They couldn't call me. Not today. I needed to be suited up, and not in the green leather and hood protecting Starling City, because my family needed me to be Oli. I couldn't have done anything about the Count, and Felicity knew it. That's why she went herself, and that's why Digg let her.

I want to crush her to me and feel her heart beating against my chest. I want to run my fingers through her hair and admit that nothing has ever made me so irrationally jealous as the Count's creepy fingers playing with the silken strands before he used her ponytail to drag her across the room. I want to touch her shoulders and kiss away the memory of his hands on her. I want to tell her how proud I am because she's so incredibly brave and shake her until she agrees to never risk herself like that again because nothing and no one is more important than she is.

"Goodnight," I say instead of all the things I want to tell her.

"Night," she replies. I start towards the stairs to grab a fresh shirt out of the club's office. "Wait. Oliver," she calls.

I immediately stop walking and turn, but she'd followed me, so we collide, her shoulder bumping against the wound on my arm.

I grunt at the pain, and she immediately reaches out with her hand, her fingers hovering above the bandage.

"You're bleeding through," she says.

"Yeah. The butterflies aren't holding. I was going to get a clean shirt before I put in a couple of stitches and head home."

"Come on. I'll help. It'll go faster. I'm sure your mom wants to see you, and not all bloody and gross. Not that you're gross or anything."

"I get it." I smile and shake my head. "Felicity, you hate first aide."

"It's the least I can do."

I follow her to the medical area, and while she scrubs her hands, I turn on the bright lights and pull my ruined t-shirt over my head. She hesitates when she sees me sitting on the table, waiting for her.

"On second thought, maybe you should scrub too. Just in case. I mean, I'll do it. I can do it. I have this. I'm all over it. Not that I'm all over you, obviously. Because that would be inappropriate. But, what I mean is. Oh. Just wash your hands."

I smile at her and turn on the hot water.

"I told Digg this, and looking back, it's practically prophetic when you think about it, but I have a thing with needles. And blood. And bullet holes in arms. Especially your arms. Because that's really... just... wrong."

"I got this," I say, taking the suture kit from her. It's impossible to miss the slight tremor in her hands. Even if she were good at this, there's no way she could stitch me up tonight. Not rattled like she is. Fortunately, I learned to sew with both hands, but it's easier with my right, so this will be a piece of cake.

"I'm right here with you," she says as she swabs the area with antiseptic and prepares a fresh bandage. "But I think I've had enough medical drama for one day so I'm just going to close my eyes and think about not-sharp things while you." She gestures towards the wound. "Do your sewing thing. I wasn't very good at Home Ec anyway."

I take a deep breath and start stitching the wound closed. As always, I'm able to focus with the clarity that comes with such precise pain, and it occurs to me that it's a very strange day when the verdict for my mother's murder trial isn't the only thing on my mind. But I can't shake the feeling I'm missing something. It just doesn't make sense for the jury to find her not guilty so quickly when the entire trial went so badly. Something happened. Someone did something. And while of course I'm grateful my mom is home, I learned on Lian Yu that not looking gift-horses in the mouth is a good way to find yourself ambushed.

Finished stitching up my arm, I hop off the table again, gathering the bloodied bandages and used suture kit and putting them in the red bio-hazard bin.

"Oliver," Felicity says in a small voice.

I turn back to her, and once again, she's stepped forward, so we end up standing too close together. My bare chest brushes against her dress, but I don't move away and neither does she. She looks nervous as she stares up at me.

"I. Um. I just want to say thank you. And I'm sorry."

"For what?" I'm often surprised by the things Felicity says, but an apology is not at all what I expected.

"You were shot because I got myself into trouble again."

"I told you. It's nothing. Just a scratch."

"And you killed him."

I don't understand why she's sorry I killed him. I don't regret it. I've not killed him many times, and while I don't regret that either, I always knew he was a dangerous man who would never stop preying on the people of Starling City if he had the chance.

"You had to kill again," she continues, tears making her eyes glisten brightly. "And I'm sorry I'm the one who put you in the position where you had to make that kind of choice."

Before, when I could easily have shot him instead of the propane tank, he mistook those burning flames for my weakness. That was his mistake, not mine. I'm willing to risk myself in order to honor Tommy's memory and not kill people, even the really bad guys. But I'm not willing to risk Felicity.

"Felicity."

I take her hand and hold it over my heart, hoping she's as comforted by it being there as I am. She has parallel red scratches on her neck from the two needles. I don't want to scare her even more, but that wasn't a flu vaccine he held to the delicate skin of her throat. Maybe she thinks she would've gotten the same shot as Digg and suffered a little vertigo withdraw until she could take the antidote. But I have no doubt if he had injected her, Felicity would have been dead on the floor of the office before I could have done anything to save her.

She'd looked at me and said, _Oliver, don't. Not for me. _And she'd closed her eyes, obviously terrified but resolved that her life was less valuable than my effort to not kill anymore. But the Count made the choice to use Felicity to get to me. He made it personal when he called me, Oliver Queen, and asked me to come and face him. He didn't let Felicity go after I'd put down my arrow like he asked. He's the one who thought he'd be able to inject her faster than I could nock and shoot an arrow. Those were all his mistakes.

Another lesson I learned on Lian Yu is that there's a time and a place for mercy, and my office tonight was neither.

I didn't hesitate when I realized he was going to kill her. Three arrows to the heart so fast he didn't have time to move his thumb to empty the syringe. He was dead before he crashed through the glass and his body plummeted to the street. But I wasn't thinking of my broken vow when I looked down at him. I only felt the satisfaction of protecting someone I care about.

I am not sorry.

"He had you." I gently squeeze her hand and smooth her soft skin with my thumb, the gesture soothing and instinctive. "He was going to hurt you. There was no choice to make."

She hesitates for a second before she offers a little smile and nods.

"Okay," she says.

I lean forward to kiss her forehead when I stop myself. I can't comfort her. Not like that. She can't be mine. Tonight is exactly the reason why. She is both the source of my strength and my greatest weakness. To allow myself to openly love her, to be lucky enough to be loved in return, would put her in even more danger.

I can't do that to her. This amazingly brave woman deserves more than that. She deserves better than me.

"Goodnight," I say again. I clear the tightness from my throat and squeeze her hand one more time before I step away from her.

"Goodnight, Oliver."


End file.
